The Red Leaves take the Green Leaves placeand the Landscape yields.We go to sleep with the Peach in our Handsand wake with the Stone,But the Stone is the pledge of Summers to come— — Emily Dickinson, . New Poems of Emily Dickinson. (The University of North Carolina Press January 1, 2015) Originally published September… Continue reading Emily Dickinson
Poor kids are just as smart as white kids. — Joe Biden
One time, your heart almost slipped away on a riverbarge. Your hands seemed to claw the sky. I’m sorry.No one else made anything out of those streaked clouds.The fact that it happened is proof enough for me. — Richard Jackson, from “Certainty,” Out of Place: Poems (The Ashland Poetry Press, 2014)
I think of how the mystics readby the light of their own bodies.What a world of darkness that must have beento read by the flaming heartsthat turn into heaps of ash on the altar,how everything in the end is madeequal by the wind. — Timothy Liu, from “Vox Angelica,” The New Young American Poets (Southern… Continue reading Timothy Liu
When God hath ordained a creature to die in a particular place, He causeth that creature’s wants to direct him to that place. ― Frank Herbert, Dune. (Hodder; British trade paperback edition 2006) Originally published December 1st 1965.
I will never forget you. Your nakednesshaunts me in the dawn when I can not distinguish yourflushed brown skin from the burning horizon, or my hands.The smell of chaos lingers in the clothesyou left behind. I hold youthere. — Joy Harjo, from “Songs from the House of Death, or How to Make It Through to… Continue reading Joy Harjo
I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can’t stop them. They leave me and I love them more. — Maurice Sendak (June 10, 1928 – May 8, 2012) Widely known for his book Where the Wild Things Are, first published in 1963.
Begin Again Let me begin again as a speckof dust caught in the night windssweeping out to sea. Let me beginthis time knowing the world issalt water and dark clouds, the worldis grinding and sighing all night, and dawncomes slowly and changes nothing. Letme go back to land after a lifetimeof going nowhere. This time… Continue reading Philip Levine
I talk to myself like this.Saying the names of things —capstan, hawser, loam, leaf, furnace.Your face, your mouth, your shoulderinconceivable to me now!Where did they go? It’s likeI dreamed them. The stones we broughthome from the beach lie face upon the windowsill, cooling.Come home. Do you hear?My lungs are thick with the smokeof your absence.… Continue reading Raymond Carver
Do not ignore it. Fuck it. Cry your heart out. Then fuck it some more. — Charles Bukowski, Selected Letters Volume 4: 1987-1994. (Virgin Books January 6, 2005)